


The Phoenix

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anti-Hero, Betrayal, Espionage, F/M, Friendship, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff finally get some shine, Sirius Black has a love life, Unrequited Love, as canon as possible, childhood crushes, more tags as I think of them, redemption ark, someone in the order is truly ruthless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When at fourteen years old, Veronica Trimble strikes up a tentative friendship with Regulus Black, Hogwarts headmaster Dumbledore, sensing her prodigious magical skills, tasks her with using her connection with Regulus to access the Dark Lord's inner circle as a spy for the Order of the PhOenix. Once she learns Voldemort's true ambitions, however, Veronica flees—but not before she learns of Regulus' death and Wormtail's betrayal of the Potters, information she feels obligated to pass on to the only Black heir, Sirius. At first joined only by a common hatred, their relationship grows over time into one that will withstand the ravages of wartime sorrow and subterfuge.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Lily Evans, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> Usually an author of historical fiction, I have never attempted pure fanfic before, and I suppose that HP is the granddaddy of them all. That said, try not to rip me to shreds. —VBC

March, 1997  
Veronica stepped from the shadows. The woman lay very still on the bed, her gaunt features still, all her manic energy doused. She had evidently collapsed upon the grand four-poster without bothering to undress or even draw the curtains. Bars of moonlight streamed in from the windows and between the green velvet drapes, causing the woman's skin to gleam as pale and ethereal as marble. Veronica studied the curve of the long and graceful neck, the shadows collecting beneath the sharply delineated cheekbones, the crimson stain of the mouth on the otherwise pallid face, the deep purple shadows beneath the hooded eyes. Her stomach knotted painfully at the thought of assuming this woman's form for, despite its beauty, the acts that it had committed made the sight of it loathsome to her. Still, Veronica knew that there was no other choice. She had been tasked with a final, monumental mission in a long stream of them. It had been nearly impossible to track down her quarry, and every day that had passed since Albus Dumbledore—bless his soul—had given her the orders which would help both his cause and hers, she had lived in the perpetual agony of those who find themselves unavenged. She could not let the cowardice that had lost her one great love stall her now, on the brink of redeeming another. She stepped forward, letting the disillusionment charm she had cast over herself at the gate to Malfoy Manor slip. She felt a slight breeze ruffle her shabby robes, filtering through the threadbare fabric. As she shivered from the cold and the anticipation, Veronica smiled with the cynicism of a woman truly aggrieved. At least, once she stole Bellatrix LeStrange's body, she would have access to better clothing.  
Veronica lifted her wand. Moonlight danced along its polished surface. She caressed its handle lovingly. It was fourteen inches exactly, chestnut and unicorn hair—"unyielding", Mr. Ollivander had called it upon handing it to her in the box so many years ago. It had been her prized—sometimes her only—possession since that day. Now she would have to cast it aside and take up the loathsome wand of Bellatrix LeStrange. For months now Veronica had agonized over whether the wand would defy her, refuse to perform magic for someone who was not its true mistress. In the end, though, she had not been concerned. There was much similarity between her and Bellatrix's natures, after all. Was it not that ruthlessness, that fierce devotion which they both shared that had shaped their lives and irrevocably set them on different paths? Wasn't that the very reason Dumbledore had assigned her this task? Well, other than that she was the only one who wanted it.  
Bellatrix twitched, her eyes flickering beneath their translucent lids, evidently enthralled in some vivid dream. Veronica shook herself slightly. Enough philosophizing, she reproached herself. Get it over with.  
In her years among the muggles, Veronica had once heard a man on the television—a convicted murderer, truly guilty of his crimes—describing the moment he shot his victim. "It was as if my vision narrowed to just what I could see down the barrel." Standing with her wand poised over Bellatrix LeStrange's face, Veronica felt a similar sensation. She could see nothing, feel nothing, but Bellatrix's face and her own roiling hate. Do it, a voice barked from the shadows at the edges of her rage-soaked brain, a voice so familiar and wonderful that Veronica sucked in her breath. Do it, do it, do it ...  
"Diffindo," Veronica hissed, and all the coarse dark hair fell away from Bellatrix's scalp as if shorn with a barber's razor. "Accio," she murmvred, and caught the bundle of hair in her right fist—the one not clutching her wand. Her eyes never leaving Bellatrix's still sleeping form, she reached into her pocket for a leather thong, secured it around one end of the tail of hair, and shoved the whole thing into the moakskin pouch at her waist. Then, with the easy part done, there was just her and the woman on the bed.  
Veronica shifted her wand back to Bellatrix's bony chest. She watched it rise and fall with her even breathing. She wondered if it was true, that the killing curse simply slipped beneath the skin, invading the tissues, and stopped the body in its tracks without any visible disturbance. For a moment, she faltered once more. If she did this, there would be no return. No redemption. She may have to kill again and again, and not those she chose, but those the Dark Lord chose, those Bellatrix would have chosen. Could she handle the shame and the anxiety of it? Could she live with herself? Would living as Bellatrix LeStrange drive Veronica out of her wits? Would she become Bellatrix so entirely that her own good intentions would merely be swallowed up in Bellatrix's life of evil deeds?  
There is no turning back, she realized. If she refused to take on this burden, she may be consigning many more innocents to death than she herself could ever kill. It was not much of a consolation, but it had become her constant refrain over the past months. And didn't Bellatrix deserve this? Yes, she answered herself immediately. For what she had done to Veronica and those she loved, yes.  
"Avada kedavra," Veronica murmured. The words left her lips with the sweetness of a lullaby. The flash of green caught Bellatrix in the sternum mid-inhale. The breath never left her lungs.  
Reaching into her pouch, Veronica extracted one long strand of Bellatrix's hair from the bunch she had collected. Then she withdrew a bottle of glutinous potion. With surprisingly firm hands, she uncorked it and dropped the hair in. Instantly, the muddy liquid turned brackish and dark. Swallowing it took effort, but Veronica had experienced far worse pain than the burning feeling that flooded her gut.  
Almost finished, she thought, as she undressed the corpse, no longer able to look at its waxen face. Something about dead bodies had always been so distasteful. As she worked, she felt the polyjuice beginning to take effect, causing her body to change form painfully, her hands slimming, skin stretching over her facial bones, her spine cracking as it lengthened, but through the changes, she continued in her ministrations, discarding her old robe and tossing it on the fire, slipping quickly into Bellatrix's, first turning out its pockets and discovering the woman's wand in the right one. As she hastily forced her arms, now long, slender, and deathly pale, into the sleeves, Veronica caught sight of the Dark Mark now imprinted on the skin of her left wrist. She felt disgusted, almost violated to see the shining skull emblazoned on her own flesh.  
Now the last bit, she thought, finally returning her full attention to the body of Bellatrix LeStrange. She twirled the Death Eater woman's wand like a baton, relishing the poetic justice of it, that Bellatrix's wand would be the one to reduce her, to humiliate her. This had always been Veronica's favorite part of the plan.  
Before her eyes, Bellatrix's features seemed to waver, then to melt. The nude form shrank and shrank, the flesh hardening, the contours of the body simply distorting into something else in the time it took Veronica to blink. Wily Barty Crouch, Jr., she thought sardonically. How would he feel to know that his methods were being used against one of his own.  
Within mere seconds, Veronica held in her hands a bone—not a human bone, but a wishbone, as from a common fowl. She caressed its clean white surface, reveling in her vengance. Sirius would be proud of her.  
And now, the final touch. Veronica snapped the bone in two, dropped the pieces, and ground them into a powder beneath Bellatrix LeStrange's foot. She climbed into the Death Eater's bed, pulling the curtains closed around her and enveloping herself in a velvety darkness. This last chapter of her life would surely be the worst of them all, and the mayhem would begin on the morrow. But for tonight, she would sleep the sleep of the righteous.


	2. The Quidditch Match

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the story truly begins. Please, comment where you want this to go, or any other praise, criticism, suggestions, etc. —VBC

A resounding groan went up from the side of the stands where the crowd was clad mainly in blue and bronze. Veronica made appropriately outraged noises when the Slytherin bludger crashed into the Ravenclaw seeker's broom, sending the hapless girl into a tailspin, but truth be told, she couldn't have cared less whether her house team won the match. Quidditch had never been her cup of tea. In fact, had it not been for the other girls in the fifth-year dormitory haggling her, she probably would not have come down to the pitch at all—especially considering the frosty January weather. It wasn't that she didn't have a healthy sense of house pride—though Ravenclaw's natural Quidditch rival was Hufflepuff, not Slytherin—it was just that the game held little attraction to her. What was the point of watching people zoom around at dizzying heights, trying to throw balls through hoops and simultaneously avoid death? The frivolity of it boggled Veronica's analytical mind. On top of that, she had an intense fear of heights, and also had once discovered, while perusing the library on one rainy Sunday for a book she had not yet read, that at least as many witches and wizards died due to Quidditch-related mishaps as did from spattergroit. That of course meant very few people, these days, but Veronica had avoided Quidditch matches since, and had only been convinced to accompany her classmates to the pitch today by something Calliope Boot, a prefect and the Ravenclaw keeper, had said in passing.  
"Come on, Trimble," Calliope had coaxed her, flipping her head over and expertly gathering her long curly hair into a practical bun at the back of her head. Veronica wished her own long coppery hair were as easy to tame, but even now fine strands of it had escaped her thick braid and formed a wispy halo around her face. "You have to come see at least this match. We only have to beat Slytherin by fifty points to get the lead—and we will beat them," she said confidently, slipping on a pair of cobalt woolen gloves with the Ravenclaw eagle embroidered on their backs.  
"How can you be sure?" asked Veronica, almost absently. She still sat in the windowseat, a potions book which she had borrowed from a sixth-year friend balance on her knee. Veronica was very skilled at potions—so skilled, in fact, that only Lily Evans of Gryffindor house and Severus Snape of Slytherin had received more awards in the subject than she, even though they were in sixth year and she only in fourth. She had fully intended to spend her Saturday lounging in the quiet of the deserted Ravenclaw common room, never changing out of her favorite yellow pajamas, and learning how to brew the Draught of Living Death.  
"Because," said Calliope, finishing the knot in her scarf and picking up the bag that contained her Quidditch gear, "The Slytherin captain only just decided who'd be replacing Rosier as Seeker after his—erm—mishap, and he’s—the new seeker, that is—the runtiest little swat you ever did lay eyes on."  
"Who?" asked Veronica, her eyes still skimming over lines of potions instructions. She really didn't care, but she hoped her monosyllabic answers would convey her boredom with the conversation sufficiently for Calliope to give up.  
"Regulus Black," snickered Calliope.  
Veronica's eyebrows shot up. "Regulus Black is the new seeker?" she asked, her voice no longer dripping with disinterest.  
"Yes," said Calliope slowly. Apparently, she did not understand why this fact interested Veronica. "Is he a relative of yours, or something? Wasn't there a Trimble who married a Black a few generations back?"  
"Um ... yes," said Veronica, glad that Calliope had provided her with a good cover for her excitement at the mention of Regulus. In truth, she was sure that somewhere down the line, the pure-blood Trimble and Black families had intermarried, but that was not at all why Regulus Black had piqued her interest. To put it bluntly, Veronica had a crush on her fellow fourth-year. Never mind that Regulus was in Slytherin house. Never mind that he came from a long line of notoriously dark and prejudiced wizards. Never mind that Veronica's mother—when she'd been alive—had warned her about the chaos and instability that plagued the Black family like a hereditary disease. Since the first time Veronica had laid eyes on Regulus Black, four and a half years before at their sorting ceremony, her heart had fluttered at the thought of him.  
No one knew about her infatuation. Veronica, studious, serious, and painfully shy, had many acquaintances and few friends. Most of her leisure time was spent in Professor Slughorn's office, where the jolly old man beamed and exclaimed over her prodigy, and who could imagine confiding such a thing to a teacher? Anyway, Veronica suspected she would be ridiculed for her taste in boys. After all, it was Regulus' brother, Sirius, the first Gryffindor in living memory to carry the name of Black, who was truly handsome, vigorous, and clever, with his sleek black hair and haughty, fine-featured face. By comparison with his sixth-year brother, Regulus was like a pale after-image. He was shorter, thinner, and less spectacularly intelligent than Sirius, though Veronica, who as a Ravenclaw valued such things, kept up with Professor Slughorn's idle gossip enough to know that he was still a diligent and decent student. Regulus was known to be brooding, exact, and very much conformed to the conventions of his family, with none of his brother's roguishness. He was a Slytherin, excelled in subjects usually best suited to Slytherin's, and apparently, he now played on the Slytherin team. Oh, yes: he also was a vocal blood purist, and viewed all muggle-tolerant pure-blood families, including Veronica and her Trimble relatives, as utterly beneath his notice.  
"Well, Trimble?" urged Calliope from halfway across the now nearly empty common room. "Aren't you coming?"  
"Yes," said Veronica, slowly. "Yes, I ... I suppose I will come." She hoped she sounded convincingly sullen.  
Now, as a harsh winter wind tore at her face and her blue Ravenclaw robes, Veronica's eyes raptly followed the green-and-silver speck that was Regulus Black, circling high above the pitch on his brand-new Comet 360. Though she couldn't see from this distance, Veronica imagined that while the Ravenclaw seeker was still regaining her bearings, Regulus would be taking the opportunity to scan the pitch for the tiny golden snitch he was supposed to capture. It was a sound idea, she thought, as the Ravenclaw seeker, a fifth-year girl well-versed in Quidditch and very comfortable with her position, had spent the majority of the match wearing Regulus out, putting him through his paces with a number of dives, feints, and tight, spiraling ascents, all with the express purpose of luring him away from his target and, just possibly, causing him to tumble headlong off his broom. Veronica felt sorry for him. All that backbiting over a ball no larger than a walnut.  
Suddenly, Regulus began to plummet toward the goal-posts on the Ravenclaw end of the pitch. Veronica imagined she had been the first person to notice his sudden change of direction, as everyone else's attention had been momentarily diverted by the spectacle of the Slytherin keeper being knocked aside by a well-placed bludger just in time for a Ravenclaw chaser to sink the quaffle into the centermost hoop. Amid mingled groans and applause, Veronica's gasp was lost—that is, until Regulus, his arms outstretched, fingers clawing at the air just a meter ahead of him, the snitch obviously in his sights, suddenly and inexplicably made a hairpin turn and began speeding right for the Ravenclaw stands.  
Everyone began screaming—everyone except Veronica. She watched, paralyzed by fear, as Regulus Black, white-faced and still flattened to his broom, plummeted through the wintry sky right toward her. As he approached, she could make out every detail of his face. It was possibly the closest she had ever been to him. His features, even twisted with fear, were fine, if somewhat delicate. His eyes, squinted shut and streaming as the wind whipped his face, were an iron gray. In the harsh sunlight, red glints appeared on the surface of his silky black hair. Veronica took all this in in a matter of moments, however, as Regulus flailed and kicked in an attempt to swerve and avoid colliding with the stands. As if in slow motion, she stood up, and as he raced toward her, she caught hold of the collar of his robes. The sudden full stop caused Regulus to temporarily let go of his broom, which zoomed out from between his legs, crashed into the ground at a steep trajectory, and splintered. That left Veronica, high in the stands, clutching Regulus Black by his robes as he dangled precariously out over the void. Veronica was short but not scrawny, and Regulus very slight for a boy his own age, but it was still very difficult to hold him aloft like this. Luckily, a few Ravenclaw boys hoisted her back from the ledge. Regulus, for his part, fell in an undignified heap beside her. The shock of what had happened was starting to settle in, and he had begun to shake violently. Some of Veronica's fellow Ravenclaws were doing the same—a few first-year girls were even crying openly with fear—but others were casting Regulus furtive glances, even snickering at him. Veronica couldn't believe their callousness. He could have died, had she not caught hold of him. Didn't they realize that?  
Then she heard the commentary coming from the podium.  
"And while Slytherin seeker Black is incapacitated, Ravenclaw seeker Sliffkin makes a snatch for the snitch and—she's got it! By one hundred and sixty points, Ravenclaw wins!"  
That's why the others don't care too much about what just happened to Regulus, Veronica realized with disgust. They're too busy gloating over the win.  
Just then, Madam Hooch clambered up the stands toward Veronica and Regulus, who had put his head between his knees and was wheezing in an alarmingly irregular manner. Madam Hooch's face was sweaty and bright red with anger. "We will reschedule a rematch, Mr. Black, and I will be investigating this matter in depth, I assure you."  
"Yes ... Madam ... Hooch," said Regulus faintly. Veronica noticed that his pupils were so dilated, almost no white showed at the edges of his eyes.  
"Mr. Black, are you well?" Madam Hooch asked gruffly. "Shall I send you to the hospital wing for some pepper-up potion?"  
"No ... I'm ... fine," Regulus gasped, and then immediately put his head back between his legs.  
"My foot," muttered Madam Hooch. Turning to Veronica, she said, in her brusque manner, "That was an excellent save, Miss Trimble. Have you ever considered trying out for Keeper? Next year is Boot's last."  
"No, Madam Hooch—I—I'm afraid of heights."  
"A shame," remarked Madam Hooch. "Well, either way, Trimble, I'll ask you to please escort Mr. Black to the hospital wing. He'll need Madam Pomfrey to look him over. You've saved him once, might as well help him in his time of need." Without a backward glance, the flying instructor strode away again.  
Tentatively, Veronica touched Regulus' shoulder. "Er ... come on," she said, but now that she was no longer occupied by saving his life, it fully occurred to her just who this was. What if he refused to go with her because of what her family had been like?  
Apparently, Regulus was still too shaken to concern himself with the blood status of his savior. "All right," he said docilely, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He stood there, teetering and still very pale, until Veronica, with a boldness she truly did not feel, reached up and slid her arm around his narrow waist to support him. "Come on," she repeated, slightly louder.  
They made their way down to the pitch slowly and cumberously, with Regulus shuffling along, both of them still trembling slightly. Once their feet hit the frost-rimed mud, Veronica was astounded to see a small crowd of greenclad spectators detaching themselves from the dejected Slytherins who were making their way back to the castle.  
"Thank you for saving our seeker," said Walden McNair, the huge and muscular Slytherin keeper. He looked even more menacing than usual up close, with a massive goose-egg forming on the side of his face where the bludger had made contact.  
"It was nothing, really," Veronica squeaked as hands reached out to shake her own, some of them also patting Regulus' back or head or shoulders, consoling him.  
"That's all right, Black. You're parents will probably be so glad you didn't snuff it today, they'll replace your broom, no question." This was the wrong thing to say. Regulus eyes, which had until now been pinned to the ground, watching his feet, snapped open, his whole face suffused with a look of incredulity and dread. "My broom!" he groaned, finally catching sight of the splintered pieces Madam Hooch was gathering up from the base of the Ravenclaw stands, shaking her head sadly all the while.  
"I tried to save it, too," Veronica said, in an effort to console him—and maybe, she admitted to herself, to keep his focus on her. "But if you stayed on the broom, you would have crashed to the ground just like it did."  
"I know it," sighed Regulus as they left the Quidditch pitch entirely and turned toward the massive, turreted silhouette of Hogwarts in the distance. "It was just ... a brand-new broom, you understand." His voice was no longer so tremulous, and he was beginning to bear up under his own weight. Veronica withdrew her arm from his waist, suddenly aware of their closeness.  
"I actually don't understand," Veronica admitted, coloring slightly. "I've never flown on a broomstick."  
Regulus' tilted black brows rose quizzically. "Never? Why?" Then he scrutinized her more carefully. She knew what he was thinking—only a muggle-born—a mud-blood—wouldn't know how to fly on a broom by her fourth year at Hogwarts. Most wizarding children had toy ones from the time they were mere toddlers.  
"I'm afraid of heights," Veronica said, a touch defensively. "And my name's Veronica Trimble. I'm in Ravenclaw house."  
Evidently, Regulus didn't recognize her surname. Inwardly, Veronica sighed with relief. She shouldn't have even worried about it. Of course, her blood traitor parents, who had died in a fire at the apothecary ththey owned in Diagon Alley, would be beneath the notice of a son of House Black.  
"So what's your boggart, then?"  
"W-what?" Veronica stammered, pulled out of her brooding by Regulus' question.  
"If you're afraid of heights, then what's your boggart?" asked Regulus.  
"It's ... a chasm. A vast pit all around me, and I'm standing on a plank a meter wide that I have to walk across to get to the other side."  
He frowned. "That's an interesting one. Mine's just waking up one day as a Gryfindor." Veronica couldn't discern whether or not he was joking, so she didn't respond. They had made it to the vast double doors leading into the entrance hall.  
"So, what do you do to defeat your boggart?" Regulus asked as they made their way down the last corridor on their way to the hospital wing.  
This question was easier for Veronica to answer. "I imagine it's a swimming pool," she said lightly.  
"A swimming pool? But it's hundreds of feet deep, isn't it?" he asked.  
"Yes, but the plank is only a few feet above the water. It's fun to dive off of."  
"You're afraid of a hundred-foot pit, but fill it with water you could drown in, and you're a-okay," he said, shaking his head disbelievingly. "Some people are so irrational about their fears."  
She poked his ribs. "Says the boy who is afraid to be sorted into Gryfindor."  
"I lied about that," he said flatly. "My fear is actually drowning."  
Veronica had no time to respond, as just then the door to the hospital wing burst open and Madam Pomfrey bustled out, stopping short when she saw them. "I figured there'd be a Quidditch injury. I was just on my way down to the pitch, but I see Madam Hooch has already sent you along," she said in her brisk, but not unkind, manner. "Come in, come in. What'll it be this time, a concussion? A fracture? A bad case of broom-stiffness?"  
"Actually, Madam Pomfrey, neither of us is hurt," interjected Regulus. The color had somewhat returned to his face, but he still looked slightly chalky and distinctly disheveled.  
"Why are you here then?" asked Madam Pomfrey, evidently perplexed.  
"Because Regulus almost fell off his broom, and I caught him, and Madam Hooch sent us up for some pepper-up potion," Veronica explained. She saw Regulus wince when she mentioned his fall, flushing slightly, and she threw him an apologetic glance.  
"Why, Mr. Black, what kind of stunt were you trying to pull that you nearly fell off your broom?" cried Madam Pomfrey in an admonishing sort of way.  
"I wasn't pulling any stunt," Regulus defended himself. "I was just about to get the snitch, when my broom just sort of—rebelled against me. It turned, and even though I tried to steer, it just shot right toward the stands."  
"And that is when you caught this boy, my dear?" Madam Pomfrey asked Veronica. She nodded. Veronica and Madam Pomfrey both liked one another very much—Madam Pomfrey because Veronica's well-brewed antidotes were often good enough for Professor Slughorn to give them to the matron to add to her stocks, and Veronica because Madam Pomfrey had once told her that if she achieved Outstanding on her potions and herbology OWLs next year, she would ask Professor Dumbledore if Veronica could begin apprenticing to become a healer herself.  
"Well, come in, both of you. I should say you both look a little worse for wear. Some pepper-up—and maybe some cocoa," Madam Pomfrey said in her businesslike manner, ushering them into the hospital wing.  
Half an hour later, after they had finished their cocoa and some ginger newts, at Madam Pomfrey's insistence, Regulus and Veronica emerged from the hospital wing.  
"It's nearly dinnertime," remarked Regulus, checking the handsome silver watch he wore. "Do you want to come down to the Great Hall with me?"  
Veronica's heart skipped a beat, but she stifled her excitement. He was only being courteous because she had helped him. It would wear off soon, and she would just be another Ravenclaw from an unimportant family, a face in a crowd of people he would rather not know. "All right," she began, but just as they made to walk down the corridor, Madam Hooch appeared, frog-marching two sixth-year boys whom she instantly recognized—one by his unruly black hair, the other by his handsome good looks.  
Madam Hooch was in a towering temper. "... would not be surprised if Professor Dumbledore throws you out, once I tell him what you've done ... two bright boys like yourself—and Black, the very thought that you could intentionally enchant your own brother's broom on his very first day as seeker. Shameful! Shameful!"  
"What?!" Regulus exploded, his pale cheeks turning scarlet with rage. "Sirius, you evil git!" he roared, rushing his brother and his best friend, James Potter.  
Sirius Black thoroughly ignored his brother. "Really, Madam Hooch, we were just messing him about a little," he cajoled.  
"Yeah," cut in Potter. "We meant it all in good fun, we swear. We never meant to hurt him."  
"I will let Professor Dumbledore be the judge of that," harrumphed Madam Hooch, giving Sirius' arms a brutal twist. "Come along."  
"You magicked my broom, you filthy Gryffindor swine?" shouted Regulus, jumping in front of Sirius as Madam Hooch made to continue dragging her captives up the corridor toward the Headmaster's office. "You are such a filthy blood traitor," Regulus sneered, blocking her path.  
"Oh, did nearly falling off his broom scare the poor little favorite son?" Sirius mocked. "Did the Ravenclaw girl saving his useless hide make little Regulus feel ashamed?"  
"Stop it," Veronica spoke up, surprising herself as much as anybody else. "Leave him alone, you idiot. If you did tamper with his broom, you really are such a brute."  
Sirius Black tossed a languid look over his shoulder at her. He really was a very handsome boy, but the humorless smirk he wore spoiled his fine features. "I know you," he said as the recognition dawned on his face. "You're the little barmaid that lives at the Leaky Cauldron during summer and winter break. You've fetched my butterbeer before."  
Veronica felt heat beginning to climb up her neck and spread throughout her face. "Tom, the barman's my uncle," she defended herself.  
"Right," said Sirius in the same bored voice. He was obviously taking enjoyment from this. "I believe I once heard that old Tom had a niece and nephew, died in a housefire a few years back. A witch and her muggle-born husband."  
"I'll tell you, miss," Sirius continued, "I have take no issue with muggle-borns and blood traitors. I suppose that's why the sorting hat put me in Gryfindor, instead of Slytherin with the other sheep in my family. But I think you'll find that my brother here holds a different opinion. Isn't that right, Regulus?"  
Veronica looked back over her shoulder at Regulus, who was shifting guiltily from foot to foot. She should have known. He wouldn't want anything to do with her now that he knew she was only a half-blood, and the niece of a poor barman, to boot. But then, to her utter shock and dismay, Regulus stepped forward and sank his fist into his brother's face. "Do not ever speak for me," he hissed, his nose bare inches from Sirius'.  
Through the blood now streaming down his face, Sirius grinned. "Gallant all of a sudden, aren't we, Reg?" he chuckled, trying to wrest his arms from Madam Hooch's grasp.  
"To the headmaster's office, all of you," Madam Hooch bellowed, trying to grab Regulus and Veronica while maintaining her grip on the two Gryffindors.  
Suddenly, a door opened in the stone wall right next to them, emitting the towering form of a tall and lean old man clad in robes of royal purple velvet, his luxuriant auburn beard and hair liberally streaked with silver. For a long moment, Albus Dumbledore surveyed the scene before him. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he said, "Let us go up to my office and sort this whole thing out."


	3. Amortentia

Impatiently, Veronica swept strands of hair from her damp brow as she picked her way carefully down the steep staircase leading to Professor Slughorn's dungeon classroom. She knew she was already late for potions class, but because she could not see over the top of the writhing venomous tentacula in her arms, she was forced to feel carefully for each rough-hewn step with her feet. She hated to be late for her favorite lesson, but Professor Sprout, judging her to be the most responsible student in herbology that day, had entrusted her with delivering the dangerous plant to Professor Slughorn. Still, Veronica had wheedled Slughorn into admitting that they would start brewing Amortentia today, and she knew that if she started her potion too late, it wouldn't steep long enough for the cobra lily nectar to properly distribute.  
So intent was she on not dropping her precious burden, Veronica did not take proper heed of what was going on around her. There was a sudden whooshing sound behind her left ear, and then she felt a mighty shove from behind which caused her knees to buckle and sent her sliding on her bottom down the last half-dozen steps to land in an undignified heap in front of Professor Slughorn's slightly open classroom door.  
"Peeves!" Veronica shouted after the cackling poltergeist, who zoomed backward along the bannister, gleefully giving her the double-finger. She half-considered racing after him, but knew that antagonizing him would be futile and would only cost her more time. Carefully, Veronica clambered to her feet, self-consciously dusting off her robes and smoothing her tousled hair. She adjusted her grip on the tentacula, allowing herself a brief moment of pride for having kept it from incurring damaged during her fall—a moment which was quickly ended by the nasty little thing whipping one of its thick, green tentacles across her face, which immediately erupted into painful welts.  
"Merlin's pants!" Veronica cried, and, amidst other colorful exclamations, she began grappling with the tentacula, attempting through sheer brute force to wrench its feelers from her face and neck. From the classroom, she heard Professor Slughorn's self-satisfied voice. "Mr. Black, I do believe someone is in a great deal of distress just outside my door. Would you please go and investigate? I am sure Miss Bodkin will watch your cauldron for you."  
Veronica froze, her hands still wrapped tightly around one of the lashing nettles. Black? she thought in a panic. Black? No, she would not want either of the Black brothers to see her in this position. Please, God, she thought desperately, don't let it be the same Black. Let it be another ...  
Evidently, God was not in a mood to answer Veronica's hasty prayer. Perhaps he was miffed at her for the foul language she had so recently used. In any case, she recoggnized all too well the boy who stepped casually out of the potions classroom and into her line of vision.  
"Merlin's pants!" exclaimed Regulus Black, in the same horrified tone Veronica had just used. "I've never seen a tentacula latch on to somebody like that! Diffindo!" he cried, pointing his wand at the tendrils that still clung to Veronica's prickling face. As they fell away, smoking slightly, she felt an immediate sense of relief, which lasted only until she raised her hands to her face and felt the many boils and abrasions the tentacula had left on her skin. Please, don't let him recognize me, she thought.  
"Veronica Trimble? Is that you?" asked Regulus, his face suddenly a mask of concern. "But you're so good at herbology. How did this happen?"  
Veronica tried to speak, but the act of moving her lips was too painful, and she found herself emitting a series of pained squeaking noises rather than intelligible speech. "Peeves," she finally managed.  
"That little burk," muttered Regulus. "Come on, I'm sure Professor Slughorn has an antidote."  
Veronica felt hot and embarrassed as Regulus gently took her by the shoulder and guided her into the classroom. Questions buzzed like wasps around her head, distracting her from the frightened gasps of her classmates as they took in her disfigured face and the thrashing tentacula Regulus now held out at arm's length. Why was he in this class anyway? From what she could tell, the rest of the desks were occupied by Hufflepuff students, as well as her fellow Ravenclaws. And how had he known that she was a solid herbology student? She would have understood if it had been potions, which she excelled at, but there were plenty of other fourth-years who performed just as well in Professor Sprout's class. Could it be that Regulus Black had asked after her?  
Well, she told herself savagely, even if he has before, he won't again, now that you have made a complete fool of yourself.  
"Miss Trimble, my dear, what has happened?" asked Professor Slughorn. Veronica could tell just how disturbing her appearance must be, because in all her time at Hogwarts, she had never seen the potions master jump to his feet so quickly. "Never mind, don't tell me yet—it might burst some of the pustules."  
As Veronica cringed and some of the other students giggled covertly behind their scales, Slughorn directed his attention to Regulus. "Go into the storage cupboard, m'boy, and fetch me my satchel. Quickly, now, before they ... er ... spread." Veronica fought to refrain from whimpering.  
Regulus hastily made his way through the rows of tables and disappeared into the closet at the back of the classroom where Veronica knew Professor Slughorn kept his stores of antidotes, extra ingredients, and crystallized pineapple, returning momentarily with a handsome black leather case in his arms. He looked visibly shaken as he handed the satchel to Slughorn, who quickly opened it and withdrew a small crystal vial full of plum-colored potion.  
"Now, I don't want you to worry, Miss Trimble. Mishaps like this can happen to the best of us. Why, I remember one time, when Poppy Pomfrey was in my advanced potions class ... but, I suspect she wouldn't want me to divulge such a thing to a student ... drink up now, my dear," he instructed her, uncorking the bottle as his green velvet belly quivered with suppressed mirth. Dutifully, Veronica tipped back the potion, which tasted peculiarly like liquefied margarine. Immediately, the swelling in her face began to recede, and she sighed with relief.  
"Now, Mr. Black," Professor Slughorn was saying, "I want you to partner with Miss Trimble during this lesson. She will not have time to brew her own potion today, and besides, someone needs to keep watch to ensure that she doesn't need more antidote." He gave Regulus a sharp look. "I daresay Miss Trimble can teach you a thing or two about proper measurements, as well. Let her lead you on this project."  
"Yes, sir," said Regulus, looking, to Veronica's surprise, rather shamefaced. "Come on," he said to her in a low voice. "My table's at the back."  
"Why are you here?" Veronica asked him, once they had seated themselves at a table in the very back, upon which a cauldron full of pinkish sludge was bubbling a bit too violently for her taste. "And what in God's name did you do to that Amortentia?"  
"That's why I'm here," he told her, giving the muck an experimental stir with a spoon and being temporarily engulfed in a cloud of noxious steam for his trouble. "I've been working on Amortentia for the past four hours. I wasn't paying attention and added too much distilled unicorn tears, and the whole thing just sort of ... spilled over." He gestured expansively with his hands, indicating the classroom at large. "Everybody had to evacuate while about twenty-seven house-elves sanitized everything, and Slughorn's robes got singed, so he sent word to the rest of my teachers that I'll be in his class perfecting Amortentia until either I get the formula down perfectly or die of starvation, whichever comes first."  
Veronica was appalled. "That doesn't sound like Professor Slughorn to me. He's never so much as taken points from Ravenclaw on my account."  
Regulus looked at her askance. "Probably because you've never burned a hole the size of a bubotuber in his best set of robes. Anyway, I'm glad you're here now. Helping you 'must have softened him up. Before you came, he threatened anyone who tried to give me tips with detention."  
"Well," said Veronica, examining the contents of Regulus' cauldron, which had by now congealed into a substance as thick and elastic as bread dough, "we're not out of the woods yet. You'll have to start this over."  
"Damn," Regulus said, without much feeling. It was obvious that he had come to this conclusion long ago.  
"Turgeo," said Veronica, waving her wand around inside the smoking cauldron and causing the pink mass within to disappear. "Now, let's start measuring ingredients."  
They worked in relative silence until the end of the lesson, at which point Slughorn roused himself from his comfortable leather chair and lumbered down the aisle toward them. By this time, the Amortentia was still far from finished, but as it bubbled Veronica was beginning to detect hints of a delicious aroma permeating the steam it gave off. To her, the potion smelled of snow and wind and fragrant wood. In short, though Veronica pointedly ignored this, it smelled like Regulus had that day on the Quidditch pitch, several weeks ago. They had not spoken once since the tense meeting in Professor Dumbledore's office, in which Sirius and James had been given two weeks detention for bewitching Regulus' broomstick, Regulus himself had earned three days for a display of "muggle dueling", and Veronica, for her part, had collected a round twenty-five points for Ravenclaw for the resourcefulness and bravery she had shown by saving Regulus. Still, the admiration of her classmates had been little consolation for how thoroughly Regulus had avoided her since. She hoped he was merely embarrassed about the day's events, but in her heart of hearts she was certain that his disinterest had to do with his brother's revelation of her family's blood traitor status.  
Professor Slughorn's jolly voice brought her out of her reverie. "I must say, Mr. Black, this attempt is a vast improvement over the first—no doubt because of Miss Trimble's intervention," he beamed. "Nevertheless, I'm afraid I will have to keep the both of you here for lunch, as Amortentia must be brewed under constant supervention and the steeping process cannot be interrupted. ... Oh, don't look like that, m'boy—despite what I told your other teachers, I never had any intention of starving you. You rather need a bit of plumping up, I daresay." And with that, he conjured a plate of mince pies, fruit in an enameled tureen, and a jug of pumpkin juice, along with emerald green cloth napkins and silverware whose handles were emblazoned with Slytherin snakes. "You can eat at your table and take turns stirring the potion," he told them and waddled off.  
Regulus rubbed his temples ruefully. His hair looked as sleek as silk, Veronica noted. She wondered if it were as soft to the touch. Mentally, she shook herself. Evidently, the clouds of steam now issuing from the cauldron were befuddling her mind—a common side-effect of brewing Amortentia with a partner.  
"Veronica," said Regulus in an insistent voice, and she realized he had asked her a question. "What?" she asked, in a queer, breathless voice that she didn't like one bit.  
"Do you think I need 'plumping up'?" he asked, with an indignant glance in Slughorn's direction.  
Thoughtfully, she scanned his face, with its sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, and sober mouth. "No," she said finally. "Maybe if you were someone else, but the way you look, it ... er ... suits you ..." She trailed off, feeling her cheeks heat, and wished she had simply left it at "no." Merlin's beard, the steam was really getting to her.  
"Want anything?" Regulus asked, indicating the food. Beneath the heady scent of Amortentia, Veronica could detect the tantalizing aroma the pies gave off. "I'll take a pie, thanks," she said. He served her one.  
"I like that about you," Regulus said, taking a pie for himself and a pear from the fruit bowl. "Most girls wouldn't touch food with the end of a broomstick if a boy offered it to them. It's very tiresome, and it makes me feel guilty when I eat in front of them."  
"Did you ever get a new broomstick?" asked Veronica, responding to the only part of his statement that didn't make her feel uncomfortable.  
"What?" Regulus asked through a mouthful of pear. "Oh—yeah. Yeah, I did get a new ... A new Comet 360."  
"Your parents just bought you another one? Just like that?" Veronica knew the Blacks were well-off, but still, the thought of such extravagance boggled her mind.  
"Well, yeah," said Regulus, now starting to look uneasy. "It makes me feel bad, you know? The fact that they'll get me anything I want, but they won't even speak to Sirius most days when he's home for Christmas and the summer holiday."  
Veronica raised her eyebrows. "But isn't Sirius horrible to you?"  
"Well, I'm not the nicest to him myself," Regulus admitted. He lifted a forkful of food to his mouth, chewed deliberately, and swallowed. "It's just hard for the rest of us—my parents, my cousins, anyone in the family—to find common ground with Sirius. He insists on being so ... different."  
"Different how?" Veronica asked, sipping pumpkin juicer. She found it almost hypnotic, the careful way in which Regulus spoke. He was so refined, so in control of his every word of gesture, so thoughtful in what he said and did.  
"Well, he's a Gryffindor," Regulus said, as if that fact alone encompassed all of his brother's eccentricities. "He believes that it makes no difference whether you're a pure-blood, a muggle-born, a squib ... he even believes muggles are the same as wizards."  
"Aren't they?" Veronica asked tentatively. "I mean," she rushed to explain at the look on his face, "we're all human, aren't we? We all have the same feelings, the same intellect."  
"We do, but both wizards and house-elves have magic, and yet wizards have supremacy over them. It's unnatural for muggles to hold positions of power, for muggles to be considered the norm in society, while wizards must always strive to conceal their magic and live in secret."  
"But if that were the case, then the International Statute of Secrecy would never have come into being," Veronica protested.  
"That statute was invented in a time when wizard morale was at an all-time low," Regulus argued. "Muggles were discriminating against us—murdering us—for practicing magic. We had to protect ourselves. But now—now there are thousands more of us. We have schools like Hogwarts, where we are taught to hone our magical skills. We should be able to come out of hiding, to become major players on the world stage. I'm not the only one who thinks this, either. Many of the old wizarding families do. That is why Sirius finds it so difficult to ... fit in with the rest of the Blacks."  
"I don't think the muggles would be very passive about us trying to come out of hiding," Veronica ventured. She knew her food was growing cold, but the conversation had taken a turn that made her unable to continue eating. The way Regulus was talking was radical: it defied everything she had ever been taught about her identity as a witch.  
"The muggles," Regulus said, setting his goblet down on the desktop with an emphatic thump, "shouldn't have a choice. Letting them run things is as cruel to them as it is cruel to set a house-elf free."  
There was a long and tense silence in which, for lack of anything better to do, Veronica reached over and gently stirred the merrily bubbling Amortentia, causing thick clouds of steam once more to waft in their direction. Regulus' views might be unnerving, but he was young, after all, she reasoned, her gaze once more pinned to his regal, handsome face. He would become more tolerant with time.  
"What does the Amortentia smell like to you?" she asked impulsively. They were sitting very close now on the bench behind the table. She could see Slughorn at the front of the class, draped languidly across his armchair like someone's forgotten velvet coat as he concentrated on grading papers.  
Regulus seemed to consider her question for a long moment, during which Veronica became increasingly more aware of his leg, bare centimeters from her own. "Amortentia," he finally murmured, raising his gray eyes to meet her own, "smells like cinnamon and ginger and fresh parchment and"—he was leaning toward her, so close that she could see his thick black lashes and the flecks of green that dotted his irises—"and I think ..." His lips met her own with precisely the right amount of pressure, a quick brush that made her forget all about the Statute of Secrecy, or Sirius, or potions class or venomous tentacula or her own humble origins. Veronica felt at once like she was falling and flying, and all of a sudden, she had a very strong appreciation for Quidditch.  
After an eternity, wrapped up in a single second like a cocoon, Regulus pulled back. "I think, were I to drink it, Amortentia would taste like pumpkin juice," he finished, in a slightly hoarse, breathy voice.  
"If you ... felt like kissing me," Veronica ventured after a while, "why didn't you ever come and talk to me after the Quidditch match?"  
"Because," Regulus began, and he was back to his usual, polished manner of speaking, "After the Quidditch match, when you defended me to Sirius, I knew—I knew you were different from all the other girls, who get caught up in his charm and his boldness and just ... just lose sight of what they believe in because he is funny—even though he is cruel ... well, I realized that day that I wanted ... that I wanted to ... do what we just did," he finished, looking bashful, redness blooming along his cheekbones. "I just didn't know how or when."  
Veronica felt her heart hammering so hard against her ribs, she feared they might split open. "You have wanted to—to kiss me? Me? For weeks?"  
"You don't give yourself enough credit, Trimble," Regulus replied, his lips curving into a sort of self-effacing smirk. "It's hard, when you look like me, to work up the nerve to kiss someone who looks like you."  
"But I'm—I'm a blood traitor's daughter," she spluttered, nerves making her speech choppy and agitated.  
"Well, yes," he admitted, "but if there is one thing that Sirius and I can agree with, it's that being a blood traitor doesn't run in families." She tried not to let the implication of that sink in. So what if he had strange beliefs about blood purity that did not necessarily align with hers? They could hash that out later. Right now, though, Veronica just wanted to enjoy the fact that Regulus Black, whom she had idolized from afar since her first day at Hogwarts, had just kissed her—her, of all the girls in school.  
Sadly, her reveling was cut drastically short. "Well, now, that looks marvelous!" pronounced Professor Slughorn, a satisfied chuckle rippling up from his great belly. "Excellent work, Miss Trimble, Mr. Black. And now, I believe, you both had better be off to your next classes."  
And so they went.


End file.
